Picture
by Trunchbull
Summary: Miss Trunchbull has an admirer.


It was one of those days where Miss Trunchbull was in an endless rage. She'd correct the slightest incorrect posture, lecture a poor child. Whatever was an opening to tick her off, she instantly approached.

Now, I'm not one of those children that perhaps 'fear' Miss Agatha Trunchbull. I have not seen what people fear most about her; maybe I am simply under the spell of naivety. Whatever so, I do not cower like she'd prefer me to.

If someone were to ask who had been in the chokey the most times, it'd have to be me. For my insubordinate behaviour, I'd been sentenced to the death closet.

From dosing off in there, I had received a few unmentionable scars.

Even as I walked to into the room, I began thinking of what to do to try to impress the Trunchbull today. Though my actions might be a simple disciplinary issue to her, I'd work hard to prove something special.

The room was aglow with the light emanating through the window, warped only by the leaves casting shadows. I could see the dust motes floating aimlessly around in this brilliant golden light. How they appeared and disappeared was a mystery for my young mind.

On the teacher's desk sat the pitcher of water, reptile-less unlike the last time. Even I was shocked when I discovered Miss Trunchbull's fear of these slimy things.

The class moved to their seats in Ms. Honey's classroom, fingers twitching in anticipation. I defied their logic. I was not one of their lackeys who were expected to do what they do to save my own life.

I was instantly at my supplies in the basket under my desk. I removed a dull pencil and a pad of paper, instantly beginning my inner imagination.

Every once in a while, I'd glance up at the time, and then to our teacher herself. Her worried face had no effect on me. I'd null my emotions from her tenderness. When attending this school, I've learned that sappy, childish emotions weren't accepted by Agatha. Maybe Agatha had a rough history? Who knows.

The moment the pencil touched the paper, my thoughts were released in a fury of lines. I did not erase—it'd only show I couldn't do more with a mistake.

Already I had finished the base of the sketch. It was nothing more than an unrecognizable figure. The room went dark. Miss Honey had pulled down the curtains over the colorful table of names; an everyday scenario of when Miss Trunchbull arrived. I could not help but be rushed to complete my sketch, to fill it with life—with details that stuck out and made an impression.

Who could not see the beauty of the Trunchbull? She was an impressive beast, with the body of a female rhino, and so powerful, too. I go green with envy when I'm in the shadow of her tall, imposing form.

My views on her were obviously portrayed in my drawing of her—I corrected myself numerous times with the eraser. Oh no, I must make it perfect; something tells me to.

Around me kids began to tense up as the door begins to open. Me, lost in countless strings of pencil strokes. I would make her proud.

The massive woman entered the small classroom, her posture demanding authority—the upmost respect. I looked up from my symphony of creativity, smiling joyfully at the features that were gifted the brawny statue. That strong glare, the furrowing of the eyebrows, and steely eyes that made anyone in her presence quiver with fear. I only admired it—I wanted to become such a powerful woman.

As she scanned the room, her gaze fell upon my small, unworthy body, and with the ferocity of a hound, she took the opportunity to pounce. With teeth showing in a not-too-tepid smile, the Trunchbull approached me, albeit slowly. Closer and closer she got, making me feel like a pebble under the world she walked and claimed as her own.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" I could hear that venom in her voice, one that has been directed to me several times before. One wrong word and I would be dragged by my curly locks out of the door.

I swallowed, gathering word and running them through my head thoroughly.

"Miss Trunchbull, I have drawn you a picture... I've always—er—admired your brilliance, and thought it would be nice to pay tribute to such a figure."

Slowly the curl of her upper lip spread out into a smile. No longer was I considered to be another snobby child, but a girl who has raised up in the ranks at this school.

"It's… adequate," and I knew that I was accepted, and that she had liked it.

I was the only one to make her truly proud.


End file.
